When we fed him to the fire
he didn’t complain,
not even a squeak.
I’d expected a last weary comment,
some small and specific dissatisfaction:
my hair’s parted wrong
I don’t like this tie
my leg is sore
that sort of thing.
A light rain hung
over the crematorium when I
crunched the gravel walking out,
unsure if this was really the end,
as if he’d be waiting
for me in the passenger seat:
I’ll not do that again
now take me home
and careful how you go
no speeding, mind
I may be old
but I’m not dead yet
and I would drive him carefully home.
